Attend the Tale
by Geraldine Lovelace
Summary: From birth to death, the tale of Sweeney Todd, and the two women who died for love of him.
1. Chapter 1

The flat was cold and dark, the way it was on most nights. In a corner of the room, before the embers of an dead fire, Bessie gripped a knotted rope and fought against her screams. At the edge of the bed, her face a mask of blank concentration, Winnie watched and waited. This was not the first time she had played midwife.

"They all deserve t'die," Bessie choked out, her eyes bulging from the pain.

"Aye," Winnie said. She rested her chin on her hands and listened to the slap of sleet on the window. Sometimes, Bessie's loud, ragged breaths kept time with the wind, and she fancied it was a little tune… something about the miseries of women.

A high, strangled cry tore itself from Bessie's throat. Winnie roused herself and peered between the woman's shaking, sweat-drenched legs.

"Over in an hour or two," she said.

Bessie cried out again; whether from the pain or the knowledge that her agonies were far from done, Winnie wasn't sure. Probably both.

"Die," Bessie moaned. "I will die."

"No, ye won't," Winnie answered at once. "Yer not that fortunate."

The babe's head appeared as the Vespers bells began to chime, and Winnie, with a grunt, caught his shoulders and pulled him free. It was a boy, a little smaller than he should be, and a caul over his face. Winnie stared at him, squirming and wailing in her hands, then looked at Bessie. "Boy," she announced.

"The Devil take'im," Bessie half-snarled, half-panted.

"In the caul," she added, busying herself with the cord.

"A boy," Bessie answered. " A _man_. A damned _man_. Another one t'add to the miseries of women." She pulled herself up on her elbows. "I won't take another one to my bed. God as my witness, I'll starve first."

"We all say that," Winnie dismissed her as she began to wrap the babe. "You'll be dancin' another jig-jig in 'ere to earn yer coin afore the month's out."

Bessie wept; desperate, piteous sounds.

"Name?" Winnie asked.

"Why, 'is father's name!" Bessie cried. "I'll just haff ter find'im. Was it the one wot had me against the wall on Fleet Street? Or the 'ighborn one in that pretty carriage? Or…"

_Hysterical,_ Winnie noted and rose to look out the window, the babe in her arms. He was quiet, his tiny fingers curled around a fold of the old sheet he was wrapped in. If she had been younger, or more naive, she would have smiled at him. But she was forty-three, and wise in the ways of the world, and she knew that for all his baby charms, he was nothing more than a whore's fatherless son.

"Has yer milk come in?" she asked.

"I won't nurse'im," Bessie snarled. "I don't want'im."

Winnie looked at her in surprise. Usually, they wanted to keep the first one…

"Yer certain?"

_"I hate'im!"_ Bessie screamed, and struck her fist against the bed's wormeaten excuse for a headboard. The wood cracked and squeaked.

"Right then," Winnie answered, unperturbed. "I'll take'im to St. Dunstan's."

She lingered a moment, to give Bessie a chance to name him or recant her rejection, but there was nothing from the young woman but gasping sniffles. Silently, she left the room, passing the women who had chosen a night of Bessie's labored cries over working in the dark sleet, and wrapped herself as warmly as she could before stepping into the street.

"Colder'n a witch's tit," she grumbled and held the babe close.

The church was a warm, bright spot in the miserable night, and Winnie sighed in relief as she passed through its doors. There were a few pious souls within, and she felt their eyes on her as she walked past the pews, but she didn't care. She was an old, tired whore, and the opinions of the high and mighty were of no import to her.

"Father Barker?" she asked no one and everyone.

A murmur went through the worshipers, then a white-haired clergyman emerged from a side door. Winnie smiled at him. He returned the smile.

"A present," she said and held out the babe.

He squinted at the dirty bundle. "Not your own?"

She shook her head. "No name, no father t'be found, no mother wot wants'im."

The old priest held out his arms. Winnie passed the babe to him.

"Poor thing," he murmured.

"Aye," Winnie agreed, then, her duty done, turned to leave.

As if aware there was now love to be cried for, the babe began to wail in the Father's arms.


	2. Chapter 2

Jane had just begun to knead her second batch of dough for the morning when her pains began. She paused, her hands white and moist, and looked at the empty street outside the shop. There wasn't much business at this hour, and enough pies in reserve to cover her absence… even if they might be a little stale. With a sigh, she turned and waddled to the door of the parlor, wiping her hands on her skirt.

"George!" she shouted.

A plump, red-haired boy, too old to be sucking the thumb in his mouth, crawled out from behind the faded sofa.

"Go out and mind the shop while I push yer brother out," she said. "And get yer thumb outta yer mouth."

"Yes, Mama," he murmured, popped the thumb out of his mouth, and hurried past her into the shop; once there, and safely out of her sight, the thumb went back into his mouth.

She crossed the parlor to her bedroom, opened the door, and sucked her breath in as a hard, sudden pain made the walk to the bed seem a mile.

"Have the decency to live, eh?" Jane grumbled and patted her swollen abdomen. She had born four sons, and only the second had come into the world with a beating heart. Across the room, on an uneven armoire, her mirror reflected her discomfort; frugality, confidence, and a lack of maternal interest had made her forgo a midwife's services. In her opinion, she had learned enough in four labors to take care of herself. The mirror was all she needed to deliver this one.

_And let it be the last one. _If it wasn't for John demanding his marital rights when it was too cold out for the whores to walk, she wouldn't be gasping and sweating over a fifth babe. She was glad, at least, that the babe had decided to come while he was at his day's work... she wanted none of his jokes, called through a crack in the door, about Eve's transgressions and a wife's duties.

"Damn you," she hissed through clenched teeth as the pains began to increase. Her reflection, wide-eyed, dishevelled, and absurdly covered in flour, damned her back.

And then, less than an hour after the first pain had taken her, the babe was born, wailing in short, choking bursts.

Jane was motionless for several moments, unwilling to believe it had been... well, considering the others, it had been little worse than when she'd had two rotten teeth out. She reached between her legs and lifted the babe, not sure how she felt about its being born alive, but ready (and resigned) to raise it besides.

"Mama?" George was calling at the door, his voice hitching in a manner that suggested tears. "Mama, are ye dyin'?"

"No," she replied, "but if ye don't mind the shop, you'll be."

The babe wailed until it was wrapped and put to the breast, and then, lying back on the pillows, Jane examined this fifth child that John's nightly frustrations had given her. Like his brother, he sported a soft, thin layer of reddish hair. There was nothing else of particular importance; to Jane, all babies were alike. And, in keeping with precedent (her first had been buried a George, her third and fourth an Edward) she named him Edward.

It wasn't until she changed him from his soiled swaddle to a fresh one that she realized Edward was an Eleanor.


End file.
